


to equal goddesses in lovely form

by peninsulam



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Body Image, Competition, F/F, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Running, Showers, Sparring, Strap-Ons, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peninsulam/pseuds/peninsulam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Best of three. Winner tops." </p>
<p>In which Kate Bishop totally wins. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to equal goddesses in lovely form

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [tartanfics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanfics), for reassuring me about my Kate-voice, and to [lbmisscharlie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie), for literally everything else.

America’s lapped her. Twice. It’s not embarrassing, because she’s America: of course she’s lapping Kate. Except both times she did it she turned back to look at Kate, soles of her shoes flashing red, not even sweating, smirking like only America Chavez knows how to smirk. Like maybe Kate _should_ feel embarrassed. Or not. Kate doesn’t even know what that dumb smirk is supposed to mean: she does it like every minute she’s around Kate, like everything America could possibly have to say can be conveyed with a twist of her lips. Kate’s getting better at reading it, at least she thinks so. Not that it’s like, a big deal, or anything, just. It’s good, you know, to be able to tell the difference between the smartass smirk America gives Loki when he’s playing nice and she sees right through it, and the smug, lazy smirk she gives Kate when Kate tries to do basically anything at all after they’ve banged. And she thinks there’s a difference? Probably? Not that she’s given it much thought.

But this: this lapped-you-twice smirk, it’s mean. It’s totally, intentionally mean. Kate kind of loves it when America is mean, but whatever. Being on a superhero team without powers blows. She makes a mental note to ask Clint about it once he’s back from wherever SHIELD’s carted him off to this week. Not that she’ll remember, because her brain is done working right now, and all she can focus on is “runrunrunrunrun” like she’s a futzing hamster. Goddamn is she tired. Checks her Stark watch -- at least 30 seconds per mile faster than she should be going on a 13-mile run, and still she can see America’s star-spangled ass bobbing farther and farther ahead. But this is the last lap of the circuit. She checks in with her body for a minute: lungs are good, left knee is doing something weird but it doesn’t feel like a big deal yet, heart rate feels...good enough. There’s a hot spot under her right tit where the seam is rubbing, which is going to be the worst as soon as she gets her bra off. Legs are getting heavy but they’ve got some kick left, and maybe she can make it back to the clubhouse with her dignity intact. Sort of. She focuses on the steady red flicker of America’s shoes in the distance and tries to pick up the pace.

\--

By the time Kate’s made it through the doors of Bishop Publishing, her lungs are on fire. She staggers back through the darkened hall to the gym and lets her back slide a few inches down the cool wall while she catches her breath in the quiet. Stark watch says she has a new 10k PR: she manages a weak fist-pump that somehow triggers a coughing fit. Real smooth, Hawkeye.

“You all right, princess?”

Kate looks up with a perfectly straight face, thinking extremely smooth thoughts because she is fine, thank you. America is across the room in the corner, glowing under fluorescent lights, not a bead of sweat on her, damn it, and Kate can feel a slippery trickle roll down the small of her own back like her body’s trying to prove a point...what the hell is America doing to her hand? Kate hoists herself up and hobbles over to the weight bench where America’s sitting. “Did you...hit something?” America’s methodically winding a white wrap around her right hand.

America ignores her for a moment, mesmerized by the wrap as it goes around, looping smoothly between America’s long fingers with mechanical precision. “Not yet.” This time the smirk tips over into an almost-grin, and that is completely unfair because Kate is tired and wants all the water in the world and a nap, that’s it, but now she has to want to get laid because that is America’s sex grin and it basically works every time. She’s so distracted by the sex grin and by the shifting and flexing of America’s shoulders in her (pristine, not-sweat-drenched) white muscle tank with her (I-swear-to-god) red white and blue bra showing through the cutout armholes and her (sweet-baby-jesus-just-kill-me-already) stars and stripes running shorts that she almost doesn’t notice the words that just came out of America’s mouth. Until she does.

“Wait, you’re not—” America’s almost-grin intensifies into the real thing. “We just-- No!”

“Getting soft, princess?”

“I am _not_ sparring with you. On a _good_ day I don’t spar with you.”

“Oh, come—”

“You chased me for an hour, jerkface. If you don’t let me take a shower and a nap and then take me out for a drink and a burger I’m gonna...”

The grin has turned positively evil now, and god _damn_ it. “...yes?”

“UGH.” God, and she’s laughing. “You’re the worst. The WORST.”

America’s not even looking anymore, smiling down at the hand wrap as she ties it off with practiced care. “Why’d we even come here if we were just going for a run? Come on, Hawkeye.”

Dammit, and she knows Kate loves it when she calls her Hawkeye, it is just stupid hot. “Because it was…we were doing four, not thirteen. And you said lifting after, not—”

“You hate lifting.”

Kate drops to the ground in a pout, which maybe is a bit much but who cares. “You’re the worst. I am-- I’m done. Are you really going to make me do this?” She looks down at herself as if to demonstrate: the sweat on her collarbones has dried into a salty white crust, which means she’s got white rings around her eyes too, and that must be super attractive.

“I like making you sweat.” America’s moved on to her left hand now, like Kate’s not even arguing with her, and. And fine, that is sort of sexy. Everything she does is sort of sexy, god this is so dumb. America pauses, looks up from her work and crosses her arms, letting the loose wrap dangle, her bulky, mummified hands making her biceps bulge, god. She pins Kate down with a Very Serious Look. “How about this.”

Kate scoots herself back to the wall, lets her head roll back and her eyes close for just a second. She makes a face like she’s definitely not going to do whatever the hell America asks her to do, even though she can’t say no to those arms, not ever.

“Best of three. Winner tops.”

“Winner tops.” A bark of a laugh escapes from Kate’s throat and she clamps down on it, attention officially caught. She opens her eyes and America’s looming. “Like, me? Topping you?”

“In the alternate universe where you can pin me…” She shrugs. She’s so theatrical. Kate’s going to have to call her out on it some day. “…sure.”

Kate bites her lip. Maybe she’s got some kick left after all. She gets up, tosses her ponytail over her shoulder and gives America the most flirtatious look she can muster, which is probably more impressive when she doesn’t look like she’s been left to die in the desert. “Oh, it’s on, Miss America.”

\--

She totally wins the first round. Kate, that is. Kate totally wins. When she has America pinned to the mat, it strikes her that, hey, she’s actually pinning America Chavez, who has, like, crazy super-strength and can kick down the borders between dimensions. So that’s way cool and also pretty unlikely. But Kate is smarter than she lets on, and is ready and willing to lie to herself about America definitely throwing a round if that means she can keep up her competitive momentum.

Kate _does_ have a handicap: she’s not crazy. So, no blows that could actually kill a person, no flying, and no kicking, because if America’s foot can open a hole in the fabric of the multiverse, Kate doesn’t want to know what it could do to her face. Which makes this basically a fair fight, or, if you’re a whiny brat of a superhero, “—not even a fight at all, are you for real, Katie?”

“Nobody calls me Katie.”

“Barton calls you Katie.”

“Nobody I’m fucking calls me Katie. Hawkeye privileges, all right?”

America cocks her head, shrugs. “Ok.” America likes Clint. It’s sort of weird, but Kate’s not going to complain about it. She also doesn’t seem to be jealous of him, which is basically fine. Nothing to be jealous of, because the thought of sex with Clint makes her want to vomit a little, and also it’s not like America and Kate are really a thing or anything. Like, up until fifteen seconds ago Kate had never even told America that she and Clint weren’t fucking, and that’s the conclusion most people seem to come to, so that could possibly have been, you know, grounds for America to get territorial, but the point is she isn’t. At all.

The point is, Kate wins the first round fair and square, probably, and is maybe completely out of breath, but she got to put America in a headlock with her thighs and that makes today a very good day. Or it feels that way for the two-thirds of a second it takes for America to catch her breath and wrench her way out of the hold.

“That so counts.” America actually sneers at her, like she sneers at Loki when he’s being a complete shitstain, or at Teddy and Billy when they’re being the world’s most embarrassing couple. She’s never actually sneered at Kate like that before.

“Best two out of three.” So maybe she didn’t throw the round? Kate’s stomach is turning, from running too hard, and from sparring with a futzing superhero, and from America looking at her like that, and she wishes she could feel better about beating the hottest, strongest girl she knows at something for once. She flaps an arm at America and heads for the cooler across the room, leaning the back of her head against the wall for one spinning second after filling a cup. She checks in with her body again. Arms are toast. Legs are toast. Left knee is officially a Thing now. There’s going to be one hell of a bruise on her shoulder, even though America pulled that punch. She wishes she were feeling more amped up about sex, but America seems like she might be too pissy about losing to be much fun. That’s assuming she loses. This is turning out to be one of those ideas that was hotter in theory.

“Time’s up, chica.” Kate rolls her eyes, downs the water, and pushes off of the wall with her elbows. God, if she can hardly get herself upright she doesn’t have much of a chance. America’s hopping around impatiently, but she looks happier now. Kate summons up some determination. If she wins this round they’re done; if she loses she’s got to get through another. She steps up to America on the mat, and they circle each other slowly, which is probably the sexiest part about sparring if you ask Kate. America’s got a few strands of hair loose: one falling softly over her temple, the other sticking out over her ear, flopping with each step she takes. It’s pretty disheveled, as far as America goes, and it makes Kate feel better about her chances. She lunges, but America sees it coming, just bobs out of the way, smiling to herself. “Gotta do better than that.”

“Is that an invitation?” Kate’s breathless already, but this is fun, the dodging and the tension. Their eyes are locked together and they blink in unison they’re so synchronized. She doesn’t get to look at America like this ever. She could, but America would be a total jerk about it, and if she can disguise the stupid hearts in her stupid eyes with strategic planning, so much the better. Then America takes a swing and everything’s a blur. Kate’s gotten good at this. Nothing like being the slow kid on the team to make her take training seriously. She’s been sparring with Clint, and he’s brought her in to train with Natasha a few times, and she’s never felt faster than she does now. America’s eyes are so focused: she’s pulling all her punches, keeping her feet on the ground, following the rules but plotting all the while. Kate sees her pause for a fraction of a second, calculating, and she throws herself forward, taking them to the mat, where they’re a tangle of limbs, and Kate gets a mouthful of America’s braid as she’s tossed onto her back. But she’s close, has momentum and the element of surprise on her side, and flips them, landing in a deep crouch with her knee at America’s throat. America’s gasping, from landing hard on her back, not from the pressure of Kate’s leg. Her eyes are open wide, the whites of them enormous. Kate’s never seen her look so vulnerable and unguarded, and yes, now she’s ready to collect her winnings.

America’s eyes focus again, and she frowns, breathing normally now. “Gonna let me up, princess?” Kate takes great pleasure in smirking at her, then hops up, suddenly full of energy. So’s America, who jumps to her feet and gives Kate a knowing look. “Time for me to hit the showers.” She’s terrible. Kate watches the stars on her left ass cheek tilt up and down to the rhythm of her controlled strut. It might actually be too controlled: she doesn’t look like she just ran around the block, let alone like she just lost two rounds after a thirteen-mile run.

“Wait, did you really throw two rounds?” America stops. “You could have just asked, you know.” She turns around, her most evil smile on her face.

“I know. But I told you, Hawkeye.” She turns back, headed into the hall. “I like making you sweat.”

Kate huffs indignantly to save face, but can’t help the ripple of goosebumps that rises up. Now’s no time for swooning. She’s grabbing another drink when America shouts to her, “Get your ass in here, Hawkeye.”

\--

America called them “the showers,” but it’s a misnomer: it’s one showerhead in a gutted-out office bathroom, because Kate might have had access to her dad’s expense account when she had this place remodeled, but the building housed a publisher’s office before this, and it’s not like they had a full locker room to work with. America’s already stripped down. Her clothes are in a pile on the floor, there are towels stacked by the sink, and the shower door’s halfway open, which is definitely not intimidating at all. At least the damp air feels good on her raw lungs.

“No one else is coming by, right?” Kate asks, raising her voice above the spray. Not that it matters that much, except it does, a little. Kate’s made out with half the team by now, mostly out of spite because sometimes that sounds like a good plan, whatever. And this is a different kind of thing, sort of. Her stomach clenches a little bit imagining Tommy walking in, thinking she’s just fucking with America to get a rise out of him. Which is…maybe something she’s done a few times. To him. With him. She’s not doing that anymore; she’s too much of a grownup for that kind of drama now.

“Just us, cupcake.”

“Ugh, don’t even.” She’s smiling, though, while she strips out of her clothes, at least until she’s naked. Well. This looks bad. The second toenail on her left foot went black almost a month ago, after the last time she tried to run with America, but it looks like she’s finally about to lose it altogether. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but she can’t quite bring herself to look at it. It wiggles when she pokes at it so she makes herself ignore it. That hot spot under her tit is, yes, actually bleeding a little, and these new goddamn shorts are apparently not good for long runs, even if they are really cute and exactly her color, because she’s got terrifying red welts on her thighs from the chafing at the seams. Kate looks in the tiny mirror over the sink. She’s splotchy and sweaty and a mess. Half her hair’s loose in its ponytail, she’s crusty like a salted pretzel, and a bruise is already welling up on her shoulder. She leans closer to the mirror, and realizes she’s actually getting a sunburn, a sharp line dividing the pasty-white where her bra straps were from the flushing pink on her neck. She sighs and pulls the elastic out of her hair, shuddering as the cold, wet strands graze the back of her neck. “Yo America.”

“Don’t yo me. Where are you?”

Kate walks over and slides the shower door open further. She doesn’t actually take a deep breath, but it’s implied, because momma like. She doesn’t actually say “momma like” because the last time she did that in front of America she laughed at her for a full three minutes, which stung a little. "You suck." America looks...well. Like an alien goddess taking a shower. Not a mark on her, not a scar, not a single tan line to distract Kate from her perfectly smooth skin. Her hair’s up still, because Kate’s been given to understand that it is A Fucking Pain, You Don’t Even Want to Know when it gets wet. She’s soaping up her leg, not even trying to make it look seductive, not like she has to when she has legs like that. “You weren’t even sweating.”

America looks her up and down. Smirks again. Kate doesn’t flinch. She sort of wants to flinch, and sort of wants to kiss America so she can’t look anymore, except she’s a tiny bit pissed off and America’s not making it easy for her, even if she lost, and probably on purpose; even if she is being gorgeous and naked and wet in a crowded shower. “Did I fuck you up, princess?”

“Maybe a little. Move it, I actually need this.”

“I got exhaust fumes and Hawkeye sweat all over me: we’re sharing.” But her hands are sliding down Kate’s back, drawing her in, and. And it’s nice. Like, actually nice, and not just sexy as hell, which, fine, it’s that too.

America’s not nice to her. Kate doesn’t actually want people to be nice to her most of the time, especially if they’re just doing it to get in her pants, so that’s cool. And it’s pretty easy for Kate to be not-completely-nice right back, because she’s nothing if not an entitled asshole to everyone else, that’s just, like, how she rolls or whatever. It’s just. Well, it’s confusing. At least now the touching and the fucking are happening, so she knows where they stand, sort of. But, like. What is this, even? And then sometimes—right this second, for instance—it _is_ nice. All of it. America’s nice, her hands are gentle and soft and she’s actually paying attention when the soapy water hits the raw skin under Kate’s tit and she sucks in a quick breath through her teeth. And America doesn’t mock her: she looks, makes a soft humming sound at the red, ragged skin, and then stares Kate down, all serious like she knows something new about her now. It’s. They don’t _do_ this, and it’s too hot, too crowded in here. Kate turns and grabs the shampoo, closing her eyes and breathing like it’s nothing.

America might be sort of a dick most of the time, but she’s also pretty good at keeping her mouth shut, which makes it easier on Kate when she’s having whatever kind of personal crisis she’s been having on and off since they started doing…whatever this is. She’s quiet now, rinsing off, and Kate’s moving as efficiently as she can, except it’s a stupid futzing single shower stall, so they’re still bumping elbows, and Kate can’t help but turn back around when America’s right breast grazes against her shoulder. That’s. Well, not completely new now. But pretty new. Also pretty awesome? Kate’s breathing is easier: she’s not instructing her lungs anymore. She tips her head up and closes her eyes to rinse her hair one last time. Talking’s easier with her eyes closed. “My place?”

“The boys over?”

“Not until tonight.” Kate feels America’s hands slide over her hips, thumbs tucked under her hipbones. Hears her hum: it’s basically a “yes.” Her touch is too cautious, but it also makes Kate’s skin come alive with the need to fuck, and things are less complicated when she’s on a mission. America steps in closer, one hand reaching around to Kate’s ass, her mouth landing on Kate’s exposed neck. Which is even better, but Kate makes a noise, tries to make a noise, that sounds something like dissent. “My place. I’ve got plans, chica.”

“You don’t get to call me chica, chica.”

“Noted.” She ducks out of the shower and grabs a towel.

\--

It’s actually sort of terrible. At least, at this exact moment it’s terrible. Forty-five minutes ago it was _not_ terrible, when they finally made it through the door of Kate’s apartment and everyone else was gone and her bed was covered in laundry and books that they shoved to the floor frantically while trying to get each other’s clothes off. Twenty minutes ago it was hot as hell, when she eased in the bulb end of her double-headed dildo--purple, of course, and America laughed but she also insisted on sucking it for a while, glassy-eyed and hungry and not laughing anymore, and Kate nearly passed out from not breathing. And even two minutes ago things were perfect, her palms sweating and slippery on the widest part of America’s hips while she fucked into her. It took a minute—she’s never done this with a girl before, and the angles are different—but she’s got the hang of it now, except her legs aren’t quite long enough to get it just right, the short, rocking jabs of her hips that push little moaning huffs of breath out of America’s mouth and into the mattress. She’s moving fast and her tits are bouncing like crazy, so much it hurts a little which is not actually a problem.

America’s not much of a talker when they’re fucking, especially like this, but Kate wishes they were talking now because then she could apologize for her legs, which are totally giving out, wobbling, and not in the good way. But the words are stuck in her stupid mouth, and she can’t get them out. Each return thrust is grinding her end of the dildo up against her g-spot, and the soft, muffled sounds America’s making are driving her futzing bonkers, but they’re getting farther apart, sounding more sad and pathetic each time, and Kate knows she’s losing steam fast. Her stupid legs, god they are the worst, slow and heavy and it is just _unfair_ that she has to be human right now. America’s the one with the body of an unstoppable machine, how the hell is Kate supposed to keep up? She tries pressing America’s hips lower to get better clearance, but the angle’s wrong, they’re sliding against each other and Kate feels sloppy and ridiculous. “Shit. Just--” She tries slowing down more, making it deliberate, but she’s sort of desperate to come and America just sighs—maybe a disappointed sigh? Damn—and Kate pulls out with a little whimper. America’s ass is in the air, still and perfect. Can an ass look dejected? Kate’s probably projecting.

But America’s pussy is swollen pink and slick all over, vibrant under a mess of wet curls, and Kate catches her breath for just a second so she can slide down and lick into her. Clean from the shower still, she tastes like lube and heat and nothing else, and Kate sits back for half a second. “Over,” she says, more than a little winded. America flips over, smiling lazily. Kate rolls her eyes and smacks her lightly on her thigh. “You do like making me sweat, brat.” America laughs, and Kate’s already between her legs, licking her like it’s all new. Which, basically it is. They’ve done this a few times, but not quite like this. It’s all been adrenaline and alcohol and laughing and half their clothes still on, up against the wall or on the couch at headquarters after the rest of the team has fucked off elsewhere. This: lazy and concentrated and slow and sweaty, this is new. So is…well, so is eating pussy, basically, which is ace, as far as Kate’s concerned, but she worries she’s maybe terrible at it. Kate’s trying to focus on the sounds America’s making, how to make them…more. Kate’s good at puzzles. She could be _great_ at this—she could be the _best_ —America’s breath hitches at something, and Kate tries to do it again, to find whatever spot and whatever pressure made that noise, but America’s tightened her hand in Kate’s hair and is hauling her up, kissing her, making the ridiculous purple cock she didn’t bother to pull out bob around against the mattress and rock inside her in way that’s pretty rad and not ridiculous at all.

America might be kind of a jerk but she’s a futzing good kisser too, and Kate can hear her own head go quiet, which makes her shoulders sag with relief. Kate might not have figured out the finer points of cunnilingus yet, but she excels at hot makeouts. After a few minutes, they settle back, panting a little, their faces still and almost touching. “Relax, Bishop. It’s sex, not a mission.” Which is kind of fucking mean, because America knows she’s new to this and more than a little weird about it, but America’s also let go of her hair, and has started jacking her slowly with one hand while the other is sliding lazily over her own brown tit, making them both sigh a little in unison. Kate’s not going to get all sappy or anything, but it’s hard not to when America’s staring at her like this, eyes all pupil, their breathing matched and heavy. America might not be nice but if Kate gets this much from her she can’t really care all that much. Kate knows she should be making a move, but she’s so tired, and this feels so good, that even though it’s probably a waste of a chance, she just wants America to take over.

“Wow, you _are_ a princess, princess.” There’s the smirk.

“Some of us are human.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Some of us are human and—” America’s hand shifts back just like a centimeter or something, and it is a critically important centimeter that makes Kate’s breath catch in her throat. “—and just ran a hundred goddamn miles and beat—” she grunts a little, forcing the words out. “—your ass.” Again. “—in the ring. Twice.” America’s hand’s stalled now, and her eyes are hard on Kate, calculating, and Kate’s hips can’t stop moving and god it’s embarrassing, her body’s so feeble and needy.

“I threw the first round for nothing, didn’t I?”

“Just the first round?” America bites her lip, clamping down on half a smile, then Kate grins and bites it for her, not quite surging against her, but flush with another bloom of want, of energy, under her skin. America _likes_ her. She’s not going to say anything because she’s got some sense of self-preservation, but she’s dizzy just knowing it, and decides to think about something else. She leans forward and piles up pillows against the headboard then flips them around so she’s the one reclining, idiotic expensive purple cock making its own invitation, and America doesn’t even smirk this time, she grins and sits on Kate’s lap, her long invincible legs folding and unfolding, and Kate could watch this forever, the red stretch of her around hard silicone, her body braced in a taut curve: one hand extended to cup Kate’s skull, the other stretching back behind to grip the top of Kate’s bad knee. It’s just enough grinding pain to keep Kate focused: she can see the abrupt bulge of America’s delts straining; the tension she’s holding in her neck. The fact that she could probably kill Kate if she tried right now is a little bit hot, but not as hot as the shuddering breath America takes when Kate rolls her hips and slips her hand between them, dragging her thumb around America’s shiny, swollen clit.

She doesn’t have to do much, which is the way she likes it, watching America move, abs distinct and solid below the soft bounce of her tits. Perfect. Kate crowds up to suck and bite at her nipples and dick around with her hair like a lust-stricken idiot. America shakes them apart, coming first: Kate figures she’s got her wind back now, and stirs to action, thrusting harder, tipping her hips so the dildo bumps up against her own clit each time. She feels sweat under her fingertips at the nape of America’s neck, unexpected and slick, and she comes hard, shouting and shocked by the force of it. America slumps forward onto the front of her, breathing a little bit harder than usual, a choked high-pitched croon escaping into Kate’s shoulder. Kate grins dizzily into her tangled hair, her hips still twitching and grinding forward involuntarily, letting the aftershocks sizzle through her.

“Did I just make you break a sweat?”

America snorts, sounding totally with it now and not even a little bit fucked out, which is almost offensive. “Don’t let the power go to your head, loser.”

Kate grins harder and tells America to go to hell. She’ll take what she can get.


End file.
